Bleed Me Out
by SammyxMarie
Summary: Dean wasn't able to keep his promise to Sam. As the ex-hunter plunges deeper into a shameful addiction, his increasingly desperate actions finally draw him back to the one person he hates more than anyone else-the angel that had abandoned him. Now, Castiel has to find a way to save Dean before they both are destroyed; but blood is thicker than love, and they very well may drown.
1. Cracking

The coffee was bitter and stale, but Dean drank it anyway. It did little to relieve the swollen sandpaper of his tongue. He poked at the congealed egg yolk on his plate with a spotty fork. The waitress, too used to his constant presence to feign politeness, paused for a moment to top off his cup. He dropped some creamer into the inky coffee and watched the pale swirl it created.

Jerry's 24 Hour Café was both the blessing and curse of Dean's existence; a blessing because it gave him somewhere to be when the roaring emptiness of his apartment began to drive him insane, and a curse because the anonymous wave of faces that strode in and out of the door only reminded him how alone he was. He compulsively dumped creamer into his cup until the contents was nearly white. He had been there for hours.

The watery gray of dawn slowly brightened into a blue morning, and it was finally time for a shift change. Dean's palms began to itch as he watched the midmorning waitress, _his_ waitress, tie on her apron. She was very careful not to look directly at him, but her hurried demeanor as she clocked in let him know that she was aware of his presence. She checked on every table but his, her voice gratingly bright as she inquired about refills. Finally, she made her casual way to his corner booth.

"And what can I do for you, sugar?" she asked with an easy smile. She leaned against the cracked red vinyl of the booth.

"My usual, please," Dean asked.

"Bacon cheeseburger," she replied. "You got it, honey."

She stacked his breakfast plates and walked away with a wink. Dean saw the flash of white that was pressed to the bottom of the chipped ceramic for just a moment before the waitress pocketed it. His skin began to thrum with anticipation.

Only a short while later, she returned with his order. She set it down with another smile, but didn't stop to talk. Dean waited until she had walked back to the counter before lifting the top bun off of his burger. Nestled under the drooping lettuce was the tiny vial he had paid for. He slipped it into his jacket pocket and tore into his food, suddenly impatient to get back home. He tossed a few crumpled twenties on the table and left without looking back.

The air was laced with a sharp chill, and Dean hunched further into his jacket as he walked. It was only a mile back to his apartment, and he crossed the distance quickly. He mounted the cement stairs to the second floor, pointedly ignoring the tarp-covered vehicle rusting in his designated parking spot. He fumbled with his keys for a moment before sliding the correct one into the lock and pushing the splintered door open. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, leaning against it and taking a deep breath.

The apartment was pathetically bare, sporting only a small bed, desk, and static-filled TV. The tiny kitchen had stained linoleum and a badly humming fridge. A lockbox sat under the window, but it was the only thing that Dean had contributed to the apartment that was his. A framed picture sat face down on top of it.

Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and held the vial in his palm, his vision filled with the dark red contents. This was his favorite part. He loved seeing how long he could last before he glutted his need, how much time he could stand as his muscles began to shiver and his breathing became shallow. He waited until the anticipation turned to pain, until the pleasure was a punishment. It was all he had now. Every time he broke, it was too soon. With shaking fingers he unscrewed the top of the vial, promising that tomorrow he would last longer. He always promised.

He held the vial up to the light from the window, watching as the sun fractured off the glass, tinting his hand with a sullen ruby glow. He sighed, and it was bone-deep in its resignation. He blinked back tears from the sun-_really, the sun?_—and tipped his chin down in a nod.

"To you, Sammy," he said, and swallowed the thick liquid.

It slid coldly down his throat, leaving a burning ache in its wake. His stomach tingled, and his vision swirled. He collapsed backward onto the bed. He wondered why it always affected him this way, when it had given Sam so much power and energy. It slid through his veins like morphine, sweet and dull. His thoughts were foggy and slow; he wouldn't be getting up again that day. Tomorrow, he would go back to the diner and complete the cycle again.

It was all he had now.


	2. Desperation

**Hello, everyone! Thanks for checking out the second chapter. I hope you enjoy, and please, read and review!**

It wasn't until the next morning that Dean realized he was out of feathers.

He stared at the stark emptiness of the lockbox, disbelief opening up a yawning hole in his chest. There was a pounding in his ears. If he didn't have feathers, then he didn't have his fix. The day stretched before him, long, cold, and sober. It felt like too much. He sank back down onto his hard mattress, hands gripping the edge until they shook. Outside, the sun began to creep into the sky.

Withdrawal bit into him faster than he thought possible. _Shouldn't be surprised_, he thought, retching into the toilet. _A hit a day for almost three years isn't something to fuck with._

Was he really in such a fog that he hadn't noticed as his feather supply dwindled? A long time ago, that kind of unawareness would have set his teeth on edge. Now, he just didn't care. He lay on the grimy tile of the bathroom, sweating and shaking. He watched the hours creep by on his watch, but the passage of time didn't mean much to him anymore. He fretfully floated in and out of consciousness.

After a very long while, his vision began to clear. He wiped a hand across his mouth and turned the shower on, hoping the heat would be enough to get him moving again. He stripped with aching muscles and stumbled in, bowing his head as the scalding water turned his skin a shiny pink. His mind slowly ground to a halt as he thought about what he had to do. He shut the water off, changed clothes, and left the apartment on autopilot. It had begun to lightly rain as evening fell.

It took him a moment to find the right key, but he was able to get the trunk of the Impala open with a sharp tug. Flakes of rust scattered to the wet asphalt. He unzipped the duffel bag sitting at the back, removing a gun and an angel sword. The shining silver blade twisted a painful memory, but Dean forced himself to stop thinking. He slammed the trunk shut and began to walk.

The nearest bar was several blocks away, and Dean's light jacket was nearly soaked through by the time he made it to the door. He quickly found a seat at the polished bar, draping the jacket across the back of his chair. He waved the bartender down and ordered three shots of whiskey. She quirked an eyebrow at him as she wordlessly passed him his drinks. Dean had been there many times, and the two of them had a ritual now. He would order too much to drink, and she would silently judge him. It worked.

Dean knocked back the alcohol, his mouth twisting when the burn reminded him of his other, much preferred, addiction. Feeling a light buzz settle in his head, he began to scope his surroundings. It didn't take him long to find the perfect target. She was young, beautiful, and obviously hoping for attention. He caught her eyes and smiled. She leaned against her table and smiled back. He had never seen her before, so no one would notice when she didn't return to the bar for a second visit. The perfect target.

He ordered two more shots and sauntered over to where she was sitting alone. Her curly red hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her dress dipped into a dangerously low V. He handed her one of the shots, and she flashed a blinding smile as she took it from him.

"Thanks," she said. Her blue eyes were too bright, like she was wearing fake contacts. "I'm Sara."

"Kyle," Dean said. He tilted his shot towards her. "Cheers."

She drank hers down without a flinch, and a small part of Dean was impressed. Maybe if it had been a different life, they could have been a good match.

They made customary small talk until it was socially appropriate for Dean to suggest that they 'got out of there.' She blushed like she was surprised by the question, and demurely agreed. Dean led her outside by the hand, pointing down the alley.

"My bike's in the back lot," he said. Sara smiled again. She was always smiling. It was beginning to grate on Dean.

"You have a motorcycle?" she asked. "That's so cool!"

"Sure is," Dean agreed. He led her into the narrow, dark space, away from prying eyes. Once they were hidden from view by a large dumpster, he stopped walking and turned to face her. Sara played nervously with the strap of her purse.

"Dean, what is it?" she asked. Her tone was stiff. She knew something was off. She was just about to take a step backwards when she froze, petrified into stillness by the metallic glint of Dean's gun.

"Stop," he ordered softly. She nodded, tears beginning to shining in her eyes. The show of emotion made Dean feel sick, but he kept his face firm.

"I'm not going to hurt you if you listen to me," he said. "What I need is very simple. I need you to pray."

Confusion, then anger crossed Sara's face as she put the pieces together. "You're one of those disgusting dealers, aren't you?" she asked.

"I'm not a dealer," Dean said. "I am, however, a user, and I am out of currency."

"Rot in hell," Sara snapped. "I'm not helping you."

"I'm not asking for your help," he said. He aimed the gun at Sara's stomach.

"You're aiming wrong," she said. "That shot won't kill me." Dean felt that pang of regret again. She was fiery and brave. Maybe they could have had something.

"That's the point," Dean said. "Do you have any idea how painful a bullet to the gut is? If you don't cooperate, I shoot, and you'll be praying for death. Easy way or the hard way, you'll pray."

Tears ran silently down Sara's face. She closed her eyes, but Dean interrupted.

"Pray out loud," he said. "I don't need you sabotaging anything."

She snapped her eyes open and glared at him. Slowly, she grit out a prayer.

"Please, I need help," she began, "I'm feeling very lost and alone right now. I might do something I'll regret. Please, help."

The silence stretched tensely for a moment. Then, there was a soft flutter of wings, and an angel appeared. He had short blonde hair and wasn't very tall. He faced Sara, unaware of Dean's presence. It was one of the blessings of angels; they were incredibly one-track minded.

"Hello, Sara," he said pleasantly. "I am an Angel of the Lord, and I am here to answer your—"

His words were cut short by Dean, who struck fast and hard. The angel blade sunk into the angel's shoulder. It began to spark. The angel let out a panicked cry and twisted to face Dean. The ex-hunter was so focused on the bright, white wings that had appeared in the angel's distress that he had lost track of Sara. Before Dean could finish the angel off, she had leapt forward and pulled the angel blade free from the angel's shoulder.

Dean grabbed desperately at the angel's left wing, and then he had vanished. He looked down at the three feathers he had managed to tear from the angel. Three feathers. The frustration almost made him sob.

"Get the hell out of here," he snapped at Sara. "If I ever see you here again, I will kill you."

Sara dropped the angel blade and fled, her high heels making sharp sounds on the pavement. Dean fell to his knees. He was screwed.

The next morning, he almost couldn't bear the pitying look that his waitress—_since when had he stopped paying attention to names?_—leveled at him. He glared down at his empty breakfast plate, where the ends of the feathers poked out from underneath.

"You know I'm sensitive to your situation, honey, but I can't do anything with three measly feathers," she said. "My boss will have my skin. Literally. I'm sorry, but I can't give you any blood until you have—"

She flinched at the icy expression Dean flicked up at her. "Do not ever refer to your product like that again," he said quietly. "I thought I had made that clear."

"Sorry," the waitress rushed out. Her eyes, however, did not soften. "Come back tomorrow, sugar, I'll have your normal amount. Just make sure you bring yours, too."

Dean clenched his fists underneath the table. He waited until she had left before he bolted, leaving the feathers under his plate. What was the point? It was like trying to buy a beer with a penny.

The withdrawal symptoms had never really stopped, and when Dean stepped out into the sunlight, he was struck with a migraine so sharp that it almost sent him toppling to the ground. He gritted against the pain and began the walk home, desperate to crawl into his bed and let the pain conquer him there.

In the end, that mile home was too much. He crumbled against the brick wall of a grocery store, too far gone to make it any farther. He hunched up on the ground and prayed for death. All he got, however, was rain. The chill drizzle drove him into the grocery store, where he impulsively bought several forties of cheap beer. The prospect of drunkenness led him back to his brick wall, where he huddled out of sight and guzzled.

Soon, he was drunk. It didn't feel nearly as good as the other high he was so desperately in need of, but it dulled his thoughts, and that was enough. He dozed off, woke up in the late afternoon, drank again. By the time night had fallen he could barely see straight. He thought about the reality that the next day would be his third without his fix, and the fury surged up so suddenly he threw up. Kicking the empty beer bottles out of his way in disgust, he stumbled to his feet and began to circle in the parking lot. The few people who chose to go shopping so late edged around him warily.

He needed feathers. No demon was going to sell him anything without them. He didn't have his weapons, but he was more scared of what his third sober day would bring than any angel. He punched at the air and screamed. He didn't like what he was turning into. He needed feathers.

He made his clumsy way to a narrow alley between the grocery store and the next door pharmacy. He didn't have his bait or his blade, but he needed to try. He was beginning to fear that he actually might die.

"Hey, you dicks with wings!" he shouted. "I'm praying, and I'm _in need_, and someone better get their feathery ass down here and help me!"

There was no response. Dean's shoulders slumped, and his anger drained away into the pavement. What the hell was he thinking, anyway? Did he really think he could take an angel head-on and unarmed? Maybe he really was trying to die.

He had begun to turn to go back to the grocery store for more beer when there was a ruffle of feathers behind him. He whirled around, a shocking need piercing his chest. He could still try! He could grab the bastard's wings and just _tear_, just rip until enough feathers came away—

His mind ground to halt. The angel facing him was slightly shorter than the ex-hunter. He had messy black hair and weirdly blue eyes. When he spoke, it was with a voice that Dean hadn't heard in years, and it brought forth such a violent wave of love and anger and betrayal that, for a moment, he couldn't breathe. The angel smiled sadly and repeated his words, knowing that Dean hadn't heard him the first time.

"Hello, Dean."


	3. Resent

When Dean woke up, he was lying flat on his back on his bed. Watery sunlight streamed across him, warming his skin. He sat up and blinked blearily, disorientation making his heart pound. Man, he had a searing headache. He rubbed at his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think through his hangover. What had happened last night?

Slowly, fragments began coming back to him. He remembered the gritty parking lot and watery beer, the embarrassing prayer and the blue eyes…

"Good morning, Dean."

_Oh shit._

Dean looked over to his kitchen and saw Castiel leaning against the doorjamb. His posture was relaxed, but his expression was stormy. Seeing the displeasure on the angel's face sparked a bud of fury in Dean's chest. He threw the covers back and stalked into the bathroom, pointedly slamming the door behind him. Through the wall, he swore he heard Castiel sigh.

"We need to talk about this, Dean," he said.

Dean turned on the shower, hoping the rush of water would be enough to drown out whatever else the angel was saying. He clambered in, still fully clothed, and leaned against the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying that Castiel would be gone by the time he opened them.

His prayer didn't work.

"Jesus, Cas!" he exclaimed. The angel was suddenly standing in the bathroom, a confused look on his face.

"You're still clothed," he said.

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face. "Yeah, I am."

"But if you're showering, shouldn't you be—"

"I'm not showering, Cas. I'm avoiding you."

Cas' eyes darkened. "I see."

They fell silent, watching each other tensely. With a resigned sigh, Dean turned the shower off and pushed passed the angel into the main room, collapsing once again on the bed.

"Your bed is going to get wet."

"I don't care." Dean pressed his face into the pillow. "Leave me alone."

"I cannot do that." The edge of the bed sank under Castiel's weight.

"Well, that's just fucking perfect," Dean snapped. He felt like shit. His head was pounding hard enough that even his eyes hurt. A roll of nausea shook him, and he groaned.

He felt movement on the bed and opened his eyes to see Castiel reaching for him, fingers outstretched. He recoiled violently.

"Don't you fucking dare," he snapped. Castiel pulled away, and there was a ghost of guilt in his eyes.

Dean rolled out of bed and walked into the kitchen. He snatched an aspirin bottle from the counter and dry swallowed a palm-full of pills. His muscles vibrated with anger. He wanted to leave the apartment, but he knew that Castiel would follow him like a damn puppy. Instead, they just stared at each other, the moments stretching into minutes. Finally, Castiel cleared his throat.

"It's been a long while, Dean," he began. "How have you—"

"It's been three years," Dean snapped. "And you know exactly how I've been."

Castiel hesitated, one hand pulling on the end of his tie. Dean wasn't used to seeing the angel ruffled; it was unsettling.

"I just wanted to say, I'm sorry about—"

"Shut up." Dean slammed the aspirin bottle onto the counter. "You are never allowed to say his name, do you understand?"

Castiel nodded. They were silent once more. Dean swung his fridge open and cracked open a beer, ignoring the judgment on the angel's face. Who cared what time it was, anyway? The liquid was cold and soothing to Dean's burning throat. He swallowed at least half of it before speaking again.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "Why now?"

"I heard you pray," Castiel said.

"I prayed to you for a long time," Dean said. The memories of those nights, grieving and alone and desperate, sat bitterly on his tongue. "You didn't care enough to come then."

Castiel's shoulders slumped. If Dean didn't know any better, he would say that the angel looked defeated.

"It's not that I didn't care. There were orders; I had to follow them."

Dean barked out a harsh laugh. He drained the rest of the bottle and opened a second one.

"Right. You're a good little soldier."

Suddenly, Castiel was standing inches from him. He jerked the bottle out of Dean's hand and flung it at the sink, where it shattered and foamed. They stood, bristling, moments from a brawl. Castiel sighed and stepped away, all of the aggression draining out of the room. Dean felt a pang in his chest at the sick look on his angel's—_the_ angel's—face. The words that he needed to say sat in his mouth like broken glass; he swallowed them down with a grimace. God, what had happened to them?

"Dean, you're killing yourself."

The words were too heavy for him. He sank to the floor of the kitchen. His resent and anger simmered coldly in his chest.

"It's not like you cared about that before," he said. He knew it was cruel, but he wanted Cas to hurt. He had been hurting for three years; it was only fitting that he return the favor.

The angel flinched like he had been hit. "Don't speak about things you don't know," he said. There was a flutter of wings, and he was gone.

Dean lay sideways on the cold tile. The first time he had seen Castiel in three years, and he had fucked it up. Deep down, however, he knew that he had wanted it to be ruined. He wasn't ready to know the truth about why Cas had left without a word once the apocalypse had been stopped miraculously, with no casualties. He didn't want to remember the nights after, when it was him and Sam together, and it seemed like they had beaten the odds and were finally going to live normal lives (even though, in a quiet, secret place, he dearly missed Castiel). Mostly, he still flinched away from that day three years before, when Sam was torn from him forever, and the one person—angel—he had depended on refused to answer his call. That was the night he had realized just how truly alone he was. That was the night his addiction had begun.

And as far as he was concerned, it was all the angel's fault.


End file.
